


i am wanting, give me breath

by AceQueenKing



Category: Star Wars Legends: The Old Republic (Video Game)
Genre: Blood-Splattered Wedding Dress, F/F, Marriage Is Sealed with Blood Drinking, Resurrection Ritual Requires Marriage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-25 22:43:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20033557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: The Body longs for Zash; she can see it in the apprentice, in the rough iron clench of the jaw, in the hard staccato beat of her feet. She remembers, she has hungered, she seeks – she seeks power, like a true Sith, but Zash knows what she needs, what she needs, is unification.Zash refuses to take the bait of appearing over-eager and revealing herself. Nothing more pathetic than a starving ghost.





	i am wanting, give me breath

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimaracretak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimaracretak/gifts).

There is a witch in her woods. 

Zash stirs, stretching her conscious mind – or what remains of it. That is, Zash has learned, the true tragedy of death; not dying, as she so often feared. Intellect does not vanish in a vacuum; it starts, lean and mean. She is dead, but her intelligence still moves, still exists. The worst part of death is not, she has learned, the exsanguinations of life, which happens quickly at least, but rather the slow winking out of one’s intelligence in an uncaring universe as one suffers death. The Jedi, fools that they are, would tell Zash to embrace this eb and flow.

Instead, Zash has kept her intelligence and Zash has honed it. Zash has sharpened her teeth and bit down on the force. She is not alive but, she clings, still, to existence.

But she is weak. If she had a lip, she would curl it. Weakness is a distaste bred into centuries of Sith Lords and Zash herself is no exception. It’s hard, being dead, and bearing all the troublesome hallmarks of post-life; but then again, when has Zash ever backed away from a challenge?

She stares at her former apprentice as she approaches their glen. She fancies herself a Darth now, this Body (_her_ body) she carries, that of a Sith witch proper. Zash would scoff at the ugly outfit she's wearing, but scoffing takes energy. Instead, she simply watches as the Apprentice/her Body move, her cybernetic implants scanning about, trying to detect what traps Zash has laid.

There are no traps. There are better things Zash has put her incorporeal hands to in the time since her death than mere _booby-traps. _This glen is no more notable than any other, but for the fact that Zash has hidden her consciousness here on this remote world, where the force sings with sweet life-blood despite the swampy marshes. She has led her new Body here, expected the girl to chase her to Dagobah sooner or later. Ones’ consciousness must be carefully rationed post-death and Zash has spent the vast majority of her cache on both the luring of the Body, and the suppression of the apprentice.

The Body longs for Zash; she can see it in the apprentice, in the rough iron clench of the jaw, in the hard staccato beat of her feet. She remembers, she has hungered, she seeks – she seeks power, like a true Sith, but Zash knows what she needs, what she _needs_, is unification.

Zash refuses to take the bait of appearing over-eager and revealing herself. Nothing more pathetic than a starving ghost.

She remembers The Apprentice/The Body as the girl was, once; her cybernetic implants still red from forced implanting, her lips a bruised cherry red from the sweet cries of pain. Beautiful but scarred, naïve but clever. Zash had seen her and Zash had known what she was To Be and Zash broke her and rebuilt her over a hundred quests for one, singular purpose, one glorious goal.

A goal that will be met today, but not yet.

She watches, enjoying the humbling, as her former apprentice walks back and forth. She isn’t sure what her scanner sees – those on this side of the force can no more easily scry the former side than a living soul can peer over the deep, mortal veil that flows over Zash’s face as if she were a bride. It does not matter. Zash is not in a hurry.

The Apprentice is. She pulls a knife out of her belt — a proper one for this sort of thing, obsidian, carved from stone by the Body’s own, delicate hands. Lightsabers are the preferred weapon for this one, Zash remembers, but lightsabers cauterize.

Ghosts, or at least the Ghost-of-Zash, like to watch the living _bruise_. The Body does a pleasing tribute, unhesitant as she cuts the blade across her smooth hand. The flesh rips, satisfyingly; the splash of blood that cascades down the white dress coat is more pleasing. (And all the more pleasure is gained from how impractical the white is; she wonders why the Body thought such an impossible color. Sith lords must get dirty, after all, in every sense. Is it because she wants to separate herself from Zash’s long grasp? Zash smirks. If so, it will be particularly ironic, for Zash will soon be closer to her than any other.) 

The Body’s veins pulse, running with Zash’s soon-to-be-blood, onto the body’s firm, young flesh, Zash’s soon-to-be-flesh. If she had a mouth it would part, slick with desire.

But she does not.

“Zash,” the Body mutters, its hand shaking as blood runs down. “Come out.”

If she had eyes, she would roll them at the lackluster address. Not even a title to her name. There’s such a thing to be said as standing on too much ceremony but even with her limited capabilities, Zash is willing to wait until the Body has, properly, groveled.

It is the way of the Sith. The girl must recognize her better.

It takes a bit longer than Zash’s average apprentice. The standard mean in terms of the acceptance of one’s fate in any given murder is about, Zash has figured, six or seven seconds.

The Body and its accompanying Apprentice takes about twelve minutes to be broken, but Zash admires that. The more unyielding the body, the more satisfying it will be when the flesh becomes her own. She likes that the natural inclination of the body is firm; more, in truth, than she likes the other firmnesses of the curves of this body. Which she does, very much.

There’s a natural hunger in the pang of the Body, and she cannot help but wonder if that extends to the bedroom. A pity; she hadn’t been able to bed her without dropping the glamour, which would have spoiled all Zash’s hard-made plans. Now that she is dead, she can only give, and Zash does not care a whit about giving. Zash is a taker.

Zash is a _Sith_.

“Zash, Darth Zash,” the Body says, finally appropriately humble. Zash gets ready to work her magic, gathers the force upon herself like a thunderstorm. A vast waste of Zash’s limited resources, but there is something to be said for presentation. “I must salute you.”

She flicks up an eyebrow; in life, Zash would have had a fun _bon-mot_, but death leaves so little energy and casting an image drains more than it helps. Still, one cannot show weaknesses in front of the subjugated.

“That little trick with the Dark Lords?” The former apprentice, soon to be Body, of Darth Zash, scoffs, lips curling in a distaste that Zash will practice in the mirror, oh yes: that curdling disgust, so potent. So beautiful.

“Not so hard,” Zash says, shrugging. “A whispered word here, some justly used insurance there…” She smirks. “One should always ensure before a murder that one has taken proper precautions, hm?”

Of course, this is not fair. But life in the Empire so rarely is. The girl does not continue the rite, looking away, her tempting blood wasted, running down her fingertips onto the gold and white dress uniform.

“Your scheme _was_ clever.” The body pouts; she wants to point out that she did not come to kill Zash but they’re both aware that the Apprentice was more aware of Zash’s schemes than she would admit. Worse, the Apprentice was only hungry for more of them; if she did not see the path that led to Zash’s sour blood on her blade, it was only because she willingly kept her eyes behind the silk Zash lightly tied over her face.

They both know that she could have yanked it down at any point, and even Zash, murdered with the lightsaber once given to the Body, did not expect it to end any differently. They are Sith. Blood is their will and their right and the only payment any master worth his or her salt can ever expect.

And now, it is her turn to give her blood for Zash. It is vital, for her rite.

“Get on with it,” Zash says, doing her best as a spirit to look nonplussed. Can’t look too eager, but the call of the blood is strong.

“Get on with what?” Her future body says, in a tone that almost suggests she is _bored_. “I didn’t commit to any course of action beyond _talking_.” The body's bloody hand glimmers and Zash fights to keep from licking her lips.

“You have to, darling,” Zash purrs. “Didn’t the Council of Dark Lords explain? You’ve been living in my apartments. Living my life. No explanation of where I am. Ever since Nathema, well, people will talk….” She lets her force presence waiver, a wink that is easier to use than the smirk she wishes to paint her face with. “I suppose I cannot blame you for your…” She pauses for dramatic effect, waiting until she has the appropriate amount of _sneer_ in her voice. “B_orrowing_. Especially if this is your idea of appropriate attire? I thought I taught you better.”

“Hm.” The body leans in close, close enough Zash sees the latticework of veins in her neck, rich with an essence that Zash aims to claim. She’s close enough to smell it, iron rust scent as heady as wine. “Is it not the way of the Sith? You think a few legalities will stop me Zash but its temporary. I have a living witness who will gleefully tell the council of Dark Lords just what occurred in Nathema. You have no heirs, Zash. This scheme… You’ve played your hand too soon. But then you always were a bit greedy. Even for a Sith.”

Zash ignores the insults, brushing them away by touching her arm. “You would not be here in that horrible white dress coat if you did not find some part of my argument persuasive.” The Body elicits a full, beautiful shudder. “It will not be so bad,” she purrs, “becoming one with me. You can keep all the creature comforts you’ve well gotten yourself used to.”

She lets her force presence run a hand down the Body. The Body jerks away, but not quickly enough. For just a moment – but a long enough moment – the Body enjoys her touch.

And Zash knows she will win at that moment, in that moment of no resistance, of the breath that puffs in and out before the apprentice, finally, falls away, the Body stepping back.

“No,” the Body says. It is not the no Zash wants: not a no whispered in a half-puffed breath, a mere barrier to be cast aside, but _no_, harsh and ugly. “No. That isn’t how this is going to go, Zash.”

“If you wanted to destroy me…” Zash lets her avatar flicker. “You’d have done it by now.” After Nathema, she could have just waited. It would be the proper Sith thing to do, what Zash would do; what bigger insult was there but to let your enemy just fade away?

She lets her force presence float upon the girl’s hand once more and, once more, she does not stir away.

“You like the creature comforts of my home, do you not?” Zash says, softly; seduction is an art and one Zash has gotten good at, over the years. “A low-born like you. Losing this would hurt you, wouldn’t it?”

“No more than any other betrayal,” the Body’s voice offers. She does not pull away.

“Ah, but if you were to have your little dashade testify…” Zash lets her voice laugh, mocking and cold. “Well, the Dark Lords would take interest in the only living Dashade. And I can’t imagine you want to lose your pet.”

“No, I do not.” Simple, tart truth. The Apprentice doesn't care much about the ugly shell but — well— it's always nice to have a brute taking some of the heat off your head when you're trying to call down lightning. And to have something unknown is to be feared.

And the dark lords know it as well as she.

The apprentice — not the body, for no mere bodily expression could reveal such grim determination — faces her. Holds out her bloody palm.

“I offer an alternative plan, Zash,” she murmurs.

Though it spends a great deal of her energy, Zash places her phantom hand in the girl’s own. “And what is it, this _alternate plan_?” And, more importantly, how can Zash trick her to go with what Zash wants, while thinking she is getting what she wishes?

“I've made a clone of you based off your chromosomal scans at the academy,” the Apprentice says. "A bit younger, maybe, and I did make a few changes to suit my own tastes." Zash does not allow herself to bite back at the insult. "I was planning on using it in the bedroom but, well..." 

"Well?" Zash smirks at the thought of having a cloned version of the Apprentice underneath her. Such a delicious, dark thought. She was right about the Body: this one's mind is almost as special as it's features. It's such a shame to have to eventually waste it, but perhaps when she inevitably does, she will take a sample, and have it bred in captivity for her. She wonders how the girl got the cloned process to work - she'd tried, several times, but the only clones she could make were late-stage crones as hideous as she had once been. "However did you get it to work?"  
  
"Lost research, artifacts presumed useless." The Body's eye flashes with a stubborn light that can only be the Apprentice herself, stubborn and hungry and mercilessly studious. She has taught her well; even Zash has to grudgingly admit that. "I'm resourceful. Now: I will help you take your clone's body and you, in turn, will _explain_ to the Dark Lords that we are…not murderess and victim, but rather a different relationship. entirely.”

“What sort of relationship?” She will have to find a way to get into the Apprentice's files, to figure out how to use this continuing 

“Married.” Zash’s jaw mulls. This is not so bad a thought. They work well together, and though there are laws against the murder of one’s spouse, laws mean nothing if one is not caught. Bide the time, and eventually, the Body will be hers — and there’s an advantage to be had in a new body that so closely matches her own, and research that so nicely dove-tails with her own ends.

“Of course, that means all my property is communal,” Zash purrs. That is a sacrifice; she will have to make new accounts to hide away for the inevitable...rainy day.

But new accounts are better than fading away.

“Would you like to see her?” the Apprentice says. She disappears a moment after Zash nods, and when she returns,a Nwe Body is in her hands. Young, blond; she is as she was. The breasts, she notes, are a little bit bigger, and she'd be offended by that if she didn't enjoy the thought that one day she'll do the same to the Apprentice beside her. She kneels to examine the girl and finds the Apprentice’s hand upon her shoulder.

“Do you agree?” She asks. Zash looks at her body, glamorous and powerful, and decides, instantly, _yes._ The best of both worlds, for a time.

She licks her lips and presses them hungrily to the Future Body’s hand’s, lets herself lick the coagulating blood clean as the Apprentice sings a rite; she sings it too low, the words indistinct, but Zash can afford the long game now and Zash will ask later. She feels her senses returning as she does; feels power swirl, ominous and freeing, and then at the apex of her power, her ghost-form into the throat of the homunculus her apprentice has so cunningly made her and drinks her blood too; the Apprentice does not stop her chanting. The Apprentice hums the ritual’s words, ancient and damning and full of power that coats the tongue, slick with something sweeter than blood.

It takes Zash but a moment to transfer her essence into the girl’s body, high on the ritual’s simple, potent power.

She blinks, with this Body’s eyes; better than Zash’s old pair, and no doubt already the right shade of yellow. She smooths ahadn down the horrible black dress – not her style, but the Apprentice has a stlye of her own, Zash supposes. It can be worked on. 

She holds out a hand toward the wife, lips wet with blood that is both her own, and what will be her own.

“Are you ready?” The Future Body asks, placing her palm in Zash’s as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Oh, darling,” Zash purrs, gleefully willing this body to move forward, and how effortless it feels, to live again, to be _unbound_ again. “I’m just getting started.”


End file.
